


Kneel At My Altar

by corellians_only



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, F/M, Knife Play, The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars), apparently i have a knife kink? who knew, din with the darksaber is too hot for his own good, gender neutral reader, not me, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:02:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28511607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corellians_only/pseuds/corellians_only
Summary: "I'm a Mandalorian. Weapons are part of my religion."
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 37





	Kneel At My Altar

There’s a phrase you use when people belittle your association with a certain beskar-clad Mandalorian. Danger, you murmur, is my stock in trade. 

It’s cold, so very cold in space. All warmth has been sucked out by the warm of space and time as you travel at the speed of light. Or something. Physics was never your gift, vastly preferring kinesthetics to obscure calculations of math and time and space. Touch, and all other associative acts: in that lies your strength, able to assess and execute complicated maneuvers at will. Time you cannot touch, but you can bend the air to your will with each jab, each kick — each time you guide the Child’s spoon in his willing mouth, or adjust your grip to hold the precious being a little tighter to your chest, the other hand smoothing around the edge of a blaster. 

And by all rights now should be no different. Your nude form straddles Din’s bare thighs. Broad hands the color of bronze mist trace pirouettes along your spine, his eyes doing the same with the front of your body. 

Whining, you move against, hot slick already leaking from in between your thighs. It’s just enough to paint his own skin, the wetness leaving a shiny train in his wake. “Din,” you plead, placing your hands on his beskar-laden chest, “Din, baby, please.” 

He foregoes a verbal response and instead gently rests his helmet against your forehead, his version of a helmeted kiss. You chase his lips, hidden underneath the visor, craning forward, nearly succeeding when your nose bumps the beskar but — but his hands have settled on your waist as you were focused on his mouth, and now you’re locked in his hold. Never one to be accused of unsteady aim, Din’s fingers grip you just tight enough that you feel their presence. A reminder, they say, nerve endings catching fire as kindling does to a ready flame. 

“That’s not good enough. I need to hear you say it, _mesh’la._ ” His voice echoes in the tiny space, reverberating from the walls and pressing into your being. The endearment is heavy falling from his lips, crashing into you, imploring you to concede. 

And you do, you do obey: you tell him how you want him to be with you and repeat your established rules (yours & his) and ask him if he will please, please touch me like that, Din. And Din says yes, because he wants it too; he’s been thinking of it for weeks, simply waiting for an opportunity to leave the unlikely band of freedom fighters and mercenaries and return to you and the child (his true home, he thinks idly as he reaches for the object beside him, not some far-off planet with only ashes and glass dusting the surface). 

“Come here,” he instructs, an edge creeping into his tone. “I need your hands.” You comply eagerly, removing your hands from the cool material and brushing against his own as he measures the heft of the Darksaber. It’s heavy, its weight pressing into your joined hands. The two of you stare at it a moment before he presses a button and the thing ignites, casting the bunk in an silver-grey glow tripping with cold stars. 

Without his even needing to ask, you wrap your arms behind your back as though you were cuffed; noting your movements, Din raises an eyebrow. “Is there something else you need, baby?” he murmurs over the kyber’s dull thrum. 

You shake your head, once, twice, but he’s not convinced. He thumbs the weapon off reaches behind him for a strip of silk that’s never far away when the two of you are in bed together. Returning to face you, Din then leans forward, the beskar of the chest plate firm against your chest as he encircles you with his arms and ties your wrists with the thin fabric. 

“There we are, _cyare_ ,” he coos, returning his focus to the ancient weapon. “Is that better?” And he smiles, just barely, when you give a sulky assent, as though you’re angry he could see through your facade. But you like it better like this, he knows, after hours spent exploring your body with hands that were once gloved and eyes gazing down on you in reverence filtered through his helmet. And even now, he’s still half-clad in beskar, the precious stuff reflecting the saber’s luminescence. 

Noting how your eyes track the way he waves it slowly, getting a handle on the weapon’s movements, Din smirks again. “You like it, baby? You want me to move it closer?” Without waiting for your response he lowers the Darksaber until it’s hovering just above your thigh. Heat radiates from the blade and you gasp, sharp and full in your chest, when he lets it rest there, unmoving. 

Eyeing you all the while, Din starts to slide the blade in the space just above your thigh, watching the way you bite your lip with effort to remain still. Your own gaze is fixed on the saber, and on his hands, clutching the hilt with a practiced hand — loose enough to remain calm, yet securing the weapon with ease. Even before you saw his hands, you loved them — you loved the way his fingers could throw a punch and delicately re-wire transponders within the span of hours. Thick and long and, oh, you’d come to learn how they filled you in the most perfect way — curling in so deep you would cry out with abandon. Other times he’d stuff them in your mouth for precisely that reason, you know I love to hear you but the kid’s asleep; keep those sounds nice and low for me, okay?, a low moan of his own escaping from under the helmet as you sucked on his fingers. 

The memories make you keen, a deep sound in your throat and you feel a gush of slick trickle down your thigh. And Din’s gotten more bold, too, you realize with a start. He’s slid the blade the length of your torso, tracing the outline of your curves. The plasma blade is dangerously close to your skin: one false move from either of you and it will be sure to leave an open wound. And so his aim is stead & true, dancing close enough to your body that you feel its heat. It mixes with your own; oh maker, what you wouldn’t give to move right now, to grind your arousal into his smooth thigh.

“Oh, _cyare_ ,” Din hums lowly, his grip around your hips tightening. “You like this, don’t you? You like it when the stakes are high —“ he pauses, and while you can’t see him, you can feel the darkening of his eyes in the way the helmet shifts ever-so-slightly to the left — “you like being in danger.” 

Your reply is breathy and unfamiliar; in your unraveled state, you think you may have switched over to your mother tongue, unable to comprehend the depths of your pleasure in Basic. But Din seems to understand, and he brings the phosphorescent weapon even higher so it’s flush with your chest. In its ascent you almost think you can see past the dark visor and into the man himself, into eyes you imagine obsidian with desire. 

Here — the saber lingering so close to your heart — here is where you finally feel it, the final nudge required to trigger the last vestiges of your flight or fight response. Adrenaline courses over you in heady waves, streaking into your bloodstream the way you imagine the stars must feel when you’re in hyperspace. Closing your eyes, you let your head fall back as your cunt aches, clenching around nothing but the light pressure of his thigh. 

oh, baby, you’ve bitten your lip, you hear Din say, but the mocking is muffled by the sheer effort to stay still, to not rock against him as your chest heaves, each breath drawing your body nearer to the blade, ever-closer to gentle thrum of danger. Your life is quite literally in his hands and you’ve never been more aroused; never been so slick as you gaze at the beam of white light that has the power to lay claim to an ancient throne in the hands of the man you love. 

Pleased with your reaction, Din elevates the blade once more. Now level with your neck, it slashes across the hollow of your neck. It’s a signal: _keep going, baby_ , he’s saying. 

“Din,” you whisper, openly pleading. “Din please, fuck me. I’ve been so good. I haven’t moved at all.” 

The impenetrable helmet tilts. “Is that all?” he rasps. 

Frantic, you shake your head, taking care to not jerk forward with the motion. A fresh gush of slick coats your thigh and you moan as you open your mouth to speak, feeling it trickle from your skin to his. “No, I— I’ve listened so good. And I’m so soaked, Din, _pleasepleaseplease_ —“ 

“Is that it, _mesh’la_?” The blade inches impossibly closer and you swallow thickly. “Just needed a little danger to remind you who you belong to? To remind you who fills that pretty pussy up so tight?”

This time, you dare only to move your lips; _yes din it’s all for you you always make me feel so full please i need it i need you —_

The chorus of your want is cut short when he deactivates the saber and rolls you onto your stomach in a singular, swift movement, hands still bound behind your back as he settles behind you. “So good for me,” he praises, and you keen at his words, loud sighs echoing as he thrusts into you without warning, bending over your back to speak in your ear. “But be careful, _cyare._ Next time you disobey, I’ll have to use the spear.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i can be found on tumblr at filthybookworm. :)


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